


pretty pink (and bloody crimson)

by thedeepestdaydream



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: 7th year, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baz is a dramatic bitch, Because that's all I can write anymore apparently, Body Horror, Hanahaki Disease, I love him dearly for that, M/M, Major Illness, No Character Death, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24867754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeepestdaydream/pseuds/thedeepestdaydream
Summary: I let out a bark of mirthless, hysterical laughter.Of course.Of fucking course.I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me sooner. It had only been a matter of time, really.***Baz suffers from Hanahaki Disease.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 30
Kudos: 305





	pretty pink (and bloody crimson)

**Author's Note:**

> "Hanahaki Disease is a disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings (romantic love only; strong friendship is not enough), or when the victim dies. It can be cured through...removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear."  
> -Fanlore.org

The dining hall is as loud as usual, buzzing with the sounds of cutlery against plates and the aimless chatter of lunchtime gossip. It’s annoying actually, my sensitive hearing being bombarded by all of the sound. Two things make being in here bearable: the sound dampening spell I typically cast around myself, and the fleeting glimpses I get of Snow from across the room.

Because I’m bloody pathetic, obviously.

He’s as aggravatingly radiant as ever, his curls glinting in the afternoon light. As I watch he throws his head back and laughs at something Wellbelove said, his voice loud and brash and bright, before throwing an arm around her and holding her close.

So, they were back on then.

I turn away, hating the jealousy I feel tightening in my chest. They’d broken up weeks ago and it had started to feel like this time it’d be for good.

Apparently not.

The tightening gets worse suddenly, making it hard to breathe for a moment. I frown, rubbing at it absently. _That’s_ new.

“You alright there, mate?” Niall asks. Dev raises an eyebrow and, as bored as he tries to look, I can tell he’s invested in the answer as well. I snatch my hand away from my chest. I can’t go around showing my minions weakness, now can I?

“Yes, yes, I just need some air.” I stand and do my best to saunter out of the room, head held high.

I ignore the three sets of eyes I can feel boring into my back.

***

I’ve just finished hunting and am climbing the stairs to our room, panting slightly. The tightness in my chest never really faded, which made it harder and harder to catch my breath. Luckily, my hunting spells and fast reflexes allowed me to catch my prey with minimal effort.

I also feel more fatigued than I should. I could normally run laps around the Wavering Wood without breaking a sweat, but a light bit of hunting has left me feeling far too tired.

Not only that, but I’ve also developed a persistent tickle in the back of my throat, there no matter how many times I try to clear it. It’d gotten rather annoying, people kept turning around in their seats during lessons thinking that I’d been trying to get their attention. Snow especially kept swiveling his head towards me, giving me suspicious looks. I’d just raise a sardonic eyebrow at him and he’d glare daggers at me before turning back around. (That part hadn’t been so bad, actually.) (If I’d known that this was all it took to rile Snow up then I would’ve started doing it years ago.)

Honestly, I’m concerned, but this was a problem for the light of day. Sleep sounds far more appealing at the moment.

Snow’s asleep. He’s awful at feigning it so I know that his deep, rhythmic breaths weren’t for my benefit. I do my best to ignore him as I collect a pair of pyjamas and head into the bathroom to go about my nightly routine.

As I settle in my bed, I finally allow myself to look over at Snow. He’s kicked off his covers, his bare chest rising and falling gently. He shines in the silvery moonlight, the constellations on his skin more pronounced than ever. I ache to trace them with my fingers.

Abruptly, the tightness in my chest constricts painfully and steals all the breath in my lungs, sending me coughing.

Snow sits bolt upright in bed, immediately awake and reaching for that ridiculous sword of his. (Seriously, what sort of mage forgoes their wand for a sword?) “What, what’s happened?” he says stupidly.

I glare at him through teary eyes, flushing both from the coughing fit and from embarrassment, because of course this had to happen right after I’ve just fed and have the ability to get red-faced. Hopefully it’s too dark for him to see me.

“Crowley, Snow, put that away,” I snap once the coughing has subsided, “Knowing the anathema would toss you out on your arse would only be a moderate comfort if you run me through.”

“Oh, sod off,” Snow growls, but puts his sword away with a flick of his wrist. He glares at me—oh lovely, it isn’t too dark for him to see me after all—and gives me a suspicious look. “What’s the matter, are you sick or something? I didn’t think you _could_ get sick.”

_Neither did I._

“I don’t see how it’s any of your business.” I say instead, in as imperious a voice as possible.

Snow bristles. “It becomes my business when it wakes me up in the middle of the night!”

I consider prodding him some more until he gets in a real strop, but that coughing fit seemed to have drained the last of my energy. I just sigh and lie back down, turning away from him. “Just go back to sleep, Snow.”

I hear him let out an exasperated huff and collapse back into his bed.

I lie there, tightness still in my chest and uneasiness in my gut. Something is definitely wrong.

***

As the days go by, the tightness and fatigue become constant companions no matter what I do. The tickle in my throat has also developed into a persistent dry cough that no amount of water or blood will get rid of.

I walk wearily towards my next lesson. The day has only just begun and I’m already ready to go back to bed.

Am I ill? I was fairly certain I _couldn’t_ get ill, it’d never happened before. Could I have developed allergies? That was another grey area in my vampiric knowledge.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I was so distracted in my musings that I barrel straight into the absolute worst person possible.

“Oi, watch it!” Snow grunts, stepping back like he was afraid I’d stab him if he got too close. Which, in his defense, is not an unfair assumption.

I open my mouth to snap back at him with a scathing remark but what comes out instead is a series of highly embarrassing racking coughs. They shake my entire frame, my body doubling over with the force of them. I cover my mouth with one hand and clutch at my chest with the other, the tightening there nigh on unbearable. I feel something come up my throat and land in my hand. _What is happening…?_

A gentle hand on my shoulder causes my chest to constrict further. “Hey Baz, are you-”

 _“Don’t touch me,”_ I snarl hoarsely, batting his hand away. I stumble past him, making sure to knock into his shoulder as I pass. He stumbles slightly like I meant him to, but it isn’t as satisfying as I’d hoped.

***

It isn’t until I make it deep into the Wavering Wood and away from prying eyes that I unfurl my fingers to see what had come up during my coughing fit.

Resting in my palm is a single flower petal.

I let out a bark of mirthless, hysterical laughter.

Of course. _Of fucking_ _course_.

I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me sooner. It had only been a matter of time, really.

I sit down heavily onto a nearby stone and inspect the petal in my hand, morbidly curious to see what form my pathetic love for Simon Snow has taken. The petal is fairly large yet still smaller than a rose’s and ovate in shape. It’s also the softest shade of pink.

I’m not one for botany—my Grimm side notwithstanding—and a cursory internet search on my (highly contraband) mobile proves unhelpful. It’s a mystery for now, then.

I allow myself one delicate stroke along the petal’s soft surface with the tip of my finger. I can’t help the smile that graces my lips. It really is a lovely color.

I stand, calling a flame to my palm and watch as the dainty petal is completely incinerated.

No one can know about this.

***

I know what’s wrong with me, of course. Cases were rare but news of them spread quickly. Particularly powerful mages were especially susceptible, their magic more likely to manifest into a solid, tangible thing.

A solid, tangible thing that slowly grew in their lungs and suffocated them to death.

There were only two known cures. (Well, three if you counted death.)

The first was if the unrequited love became requited. (That one was immediately out.)

The second involved a complicated spell that removed the encroaching plant along with any feeling of love for the other party.

I seriously consider this option. I should be jumping for joy, really. Finally, a chance to get rid of my feelings for Snow! It’d make both of our lives so much easier, especially mine. I could fight him in our final confrontation without guilt or remorse, actually stand a chance at cutting him down.

I wouldn’t have to be constantly tortured by him, by how good and bright and _alive_ he is. I’d be able to walk into a room without immediately scanning for blue eyes and bronze curls. I could sleep without feeling the need to count his freckles like a child counted sheep. I wouldn’t have to feel the constant need to poke and prod at him because his hate was still better than his indifference, because I at least was on his mind.

I’d finally be free of Simon Snow. However, instead of the relief I’d expected to feel at that thought, I only feel unfathomable sorrow.

Well, I’d always known that Snow would ultimately be the death of me. I’d simply never imagined it would be like this.

Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

***

(I lay in bed that night, trying to commit every mole and freckle to memory. I cough quietly and six petals fall to rest on my pillow.)

(I toss them out the window to flutter down to the merwolves.)

***

I consider telling my family what’s happening. It would be a comfort to see them again.

If I told them, they’d most likely demand to know who was worth dying over (which I’ll never say) and make me leave Watford, my mother, and Snow behind (which I’ll never do).

I don’t tell my family.

***

It gets to the point that I can barely _look_ at Snow without spewing out petals like they’re bloody confetti, so I’ve taken to avoiding him like the plague. It’s humiliating, but not as humiliating as literally vomiting my feelings all over Snow would be.

So avoiding him it was.

During lessons, I take to sitting as far away from Snow as possible without actually leaving the room, and have even ceased commenting on his shoddy spellwork. (Dev and Niall haven’t, so there was that at least.) I stop eating in the dining hall during mealtimes, using my in with Cook Pritchard to get a key to the kitchens so I can come and go as I please. I’m only in our room when sleeping, and even then I make sure to come back only when I’m sure Snow is already asleep.

It’d worked for the first few days, but soon even _thinking_ of Snow was enough to set me off. And I think about him constantly. I miss him so terribly that it’s like an ache. His unexceptionally blue eyes, his blustering voice, his sleeping face.

It doesn’t help that he’s taken up his old pastime of stalking me wherever I go, following me down into the catacombs and even sitting in on my football practices again. He clearly thinks I’m up to something.

I should dissuade him of that notion by telling him to kindly fuck off, but I don’t. The glimpses I get of him while he miserably fails to be stealthy are all I’ll allow myself, and I’m nothing if not a masochist.

***

I’m growing weaker.

The face I see in the mirror is paler than usual, my skin almost translucent. It serves to accentuate the dark bags under my eyes. Hunting is growing increasingly difficult, the tightness in my chest making it harder and harder to breathe with each passing day. Football practice has turned into a sort of torture as I try not to visibly wheeze while running for the ball.

Dev and Niall are sure to act cool and disinterested while in public (good men) but pull me aside on more than one occasion to ask if everything was alright in private. I wave it off each time as a passing illness, nothing to be concerned about.

(It’s not exactly a lie. It _will_ pass, it’ll simply take me with it.)

***

I’m the first one out of Magickal Words, using my—still considerable—vampire reflexes to beat the rush for the door. I walk down the hall, seriously considering skiving off the rest of my lessons for the first time in my Watford career in order to go take a nap. (I’d cast a second-year spell earlier and it was nearly enough to keel me over.) (Honestly, a nap was probably for the best.)

A rough grip that shouldn’t be as familiar as it is stops me. Sure enough, Snow stands with a hand clamped on my arm, glowering at me and panting. He’d clearly run to catch up to me and the thought makes me smirk.

I yank my arm free from his grasp before I shower him in flower petals. “Why Snow,” I say distastefully, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“What’s wrong with you?” Snow says accusingly, cutting straight to the point as usual.

I raise an eyebrow, but sigh internally. This was exactly why I tried to leave first. I could feel Snow’s eyes on me throughout the entire lesson, the acrid smell of smoke filling the room and making it even harder to breathe than usual.

And I’d done _so well_ to avoid him up until now…

“Well, besides your constant stalking, the only thing currently bothering me is this cold.”

“Vampires can’t get colds!”

“Has it occurred to you that might possibly mean that I’m _not_ , in fact, a vampire?”

“No!”

“Calm down, Simon,” Wellbelove chastises, holding Snow back from another outburst. “You’re making a scene.”

I try to hide my surprise at her appearance. I was so involved in riling up Snow for the first time in over a week that I hadn’t even sensed her coming. I should be alarmed at that, but I can’t take my eyes off of the small, dainty hand she’s placed on Snow’s arm.

Resting gently, like it belonged there.

Without warning, I feel the now-familiar sensation of something crawling up my throat. I turn and sprint towards the nearest toilet, ignoring Snow’s shout and past caring about manners or dignity. I burst in— _thank fucking Crowley it’s empty_ —and lock the door behind me. I fall to my knees right as a cascade of pink petals comes flowing out of my mouth and onto the floor, scorching a line of fire up my throat in their wake. Every time I think it’s the end of them, more come rushing up. I know it’s only because I don’t need to breathe as much as the average person that I haven’t passed out yet.

When they finally stop, I’m on my hands and knees, panting raggedly.

The petals glimmer in the light, crimson blood now marring the pretty pink.

***

I stay in the catacombs for the rest of the day and night. I keep my mother company, taking comfort in her presence.

***

I go back to our room when I’m sure Snow has already headed to class, packing a few of my belongings to take with me. It’s freezing in here, so I close the window.

Snow’s bed is unmade, as usual. I do the one thing I’ve always wanted to do but have never had the courage to before then—I throw myself into Snow’s bed and bury my face into his pillow. It’s overwhelming in the best way possible.

I rush to the bathroom before petals go everywhere. As I kneel in front of the toilet, however, I can feel something’s different. Instead of single petals, a whole head lands in the water with a sickening _plop_. I fish it out with shaking fingers.

It’s beautiful. It sort of looks like the peonies Daphne liked to decorate the manor with during one of her parties, but the petals are rounder and more uniform.

An internet search reveals the flower to be a pink camellia. A Pearl Maxwell Camellia, to be exact.

Apparently, pink camellias symbolize love, desire, and deep longing.

I huff a humorless laugh. Yes, that sounds about right.

***

I meant to leave before Snow got back, but I wake suddenly—in my own bed, thankfully—to the sound of the door bursting open. Snow stands there, huffing and puffing like he just finished running a bloody marathon. Our eyes meet and a zing goes up my spine at the bone-deep _relief_ on his face. 

“ _There you are,”_ Snow sighs, “I’ve been looking for you _everywhere!_ Why didn’t you come back last night?”

“You… were looking for me?” I can’t help but say faintly.

“ _Of course I was looking for you, you numpty!”_ Snow barks, “You look like shit warmed over and haven’t so much as _looked_ at me all week, then you run off in the middle of an argument and disappear! I was going spare trying to find you!”

Snow was worried about me. He tried to find me.

I scramble to my feet, trying to duck past Snow to get to the bathroom. He snatches my wrists before I can get by.

Snow turns me to face him, but I refuse to look him in the eye. “Woah Baz, wait, where are you going?”

I frantically try to pull away, but I’m so weak that I can’t break his hold. I can feel both panic and camellias crawling up my throat, choking me.

_“Baz, stop, what’re you—”_

Running footsteps crash up the stairs before Bunce and Wellbelove appear at the door, both of them out of breath. “Merlin, Simon, don’t just take off running!”

_Please, not like this._

Too late. Unable to hold them back any longer, I duck my head and blood-streaked camellias land at our feet. I barely register when Snow finally lets go. I collapse on my hands and knees, elbows trembling as the flowers just keep coming.

Merlin and Morgana, my chest is on _fire_.

When they finally subside, I have just enough time to see unremarkably blue eyes staring out of a pale, shocked face before I slip into unconsciousness.

***

The first thing I register is an insistent pounding in my skull. The second thing I register is the familiar smell of smoke.

I open my eyes blearily, blinking in confusion. I was in an unfamiliar bed covered in a scratchy white blanket, the rest of the room blocked out by drawn white curtains. Everything also looked oddly distorted, as if my head were trapped in a soap bubble.

“Nurse Highchurch cast **Take a deep breath** on you. Because she said you’d have _difficulty breathing this far along_.”

I turn to see the glorious—if slightly wobbly—sight of Simon Snow sitting at my bedside looking pale, tired, and absolutely _livid_.

“What the _fuck,_ Baz,” Snow spits furiously, thick green smoke billowing from him dangerously. “You threw up _flowers!_ Penny says that means you’re so in love that it—that it’s _killing you_. That it’s been killing you for _over a week!_ Why didn’t you tell anyone what was going on?”

I silently observe while Snow gives his tirade. I wait for the disgust, for the derision. For him to storm off, balking in the face of my love. I’d hoped to avoid being rejected before I died, but apparently that wasn’t in the cards.

I wish Snow would just get on with it and put me out of my misery.

Snow tortures his curls, running a hand roughly through them until they’re a disastrous mess. “Christ, I wasn’t even aware that you liked anyone, much less _loved_ someone enough that it could kill you!”

…What?

Oh.

Oh, this absolute nightmare of a beautiful idiot.

I place a trembling hand over my mouth to hide my manic smile, my hand phasing through the nurse’s spell as if it weren’t there. The wave of relief that hits me is so strong that my breath stutters.

_Safe, I’m still safe._

Snow must read this as another flower attack, because he’s suddenly thrusting a bucket into my hands. I’m so struck by the thoughtfulness of the gesture that it makes the bucket suddenly necessary. I’d be ashamed of myself if I weren’t too busy vomiting camellias and basking in the knowledge that my secret was still safe.

In contrast, Snow seemed to be getting more and more agitated, his poor curls looking like a warzone. He shoots to his feet. “The nurse says there’s a cure, but that she needed your permission first. I’ll go tell her that you’re awake so she can do it!”

Before he can take off, I grab a fistful of his red jumper. I don’t know why I do it—I knew I wasn’t strong enough to hold him back in my current state—but the way he acted I may as well have handcuffed him to me.

“There’s no need,” I rasp, throat still sore from my earlier attack. “Because I’m not doing it.”

I could see the words knock around his head as he processed them. His face morphs from confusion, to shock, until finally settling on sputtering anger.

“Baz, you’re _dying_.”

“I’m aware.”

“This will save you!”

“It’ll also make me forget. I’ve decided that I’d rather die before I let that happen.”

“Tell me who it is, who’s worth _dying over?”_

I look away. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Doesn’t matt— _of course it matters!”_ Snow cries in exasperation, the smell of smoke intensifying so much that it actually sends me coughing. Snow stops and turns his back to me, clenching his fists and taking measured breaths, clearly trying to get control over his magic. I could practically hear him counting back from ten in his head.

Snow turns back to me as soon as the smoke recedes, quickly changing tracks. “Tell me who it is, I’ll bring her here for you. All she has to do is love you back, right?”

I can’t help the undignified snort that escapes me. I am hopelessly in love with a moron. “That’s never going to happen, Snow.”

“Why? Is it because… is it because it’s Agatha?” He asks tentatively.

I try to muster up anger at the fact that even while at my deathbed, Snow still can’t get his mind off of bloody Wellbelove. All I manage to feel is a bone-deep weariness. I sigh, but it comes out as more of a wheeze as the flowers in my chest rustle painfully. I slump back into the pillows behind me and close my eyes.

It really is hopeless, isn’t it?

The silence stretches between us, long and taut. I sigh-wheeze again. I’m trying to gather up the strength needed to tell Snow to go back to Wellbelove so they can get married and have beautiful, golden children together.

At least I’ll get to see my mother again.

“I’ll bring Agatha.”

The resolve in his voice makes me put my pity party on pause and pop my eyes open. “…What?”

“I’ll bring Agatha here. She’s who you’re in love with, right? It shouldn’t be hard to get her to fall in love with you, I’m pretty sure she’s already halfway there.”

I gape at him, gobsmacked. “But she’s your girlfriend.”

He smiles ruefully while rubbing the back of his neck. “Not anymore. She broke up with me again when I was tearing Watford apart looking for you. Said I ‘once again forgot our anniversary while chasing after Baz Pitch.’”

My heart flutters traitorously at that.

Snow squares his shoulders. “Right, I’ll go get her. Wait here.”

For the second time that night, I grab at Snow’s jumper, and for the second time that night, he stops like I’d cast **Stand your ground!** on him.

“It isn’t Wellbelove,” I murmur.

Snow rolls his eyes. “Come off it, I see the way you look at her!”

 _(I’m looking at_ you _that way, you muppet. She just happens to be next to you when I do it.)_

“I only look at her to wind you up,” I say instead. “I’m not really interested in her.”

He opens his mouth, clearly about to either argue or go off on me for playing with Wellbelove’s feelings or some such nonsense, but quickly snaps it shut again after seemingly thinking better of it. He takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring. _“Then who is it?”_

For one wild moment I consider confessing my undying love, of telling him that these camellias were for no one else but him. He’d say how he’s always found me unbearably attractive and we’d ride off into the bloody sunset together, hand in hand.

But then I let that moment pass because I’m a filthy coward who’d literally rather die than get rejected.

“I told you,” I say flatly, “It doesn’t matter.”

“Why do you keep _saying that?”_

“Because it doesn’t.”

_“Why not?”_

“Because he’ll never love me back.”

I’ll give him that, at least. It’s the one secret I don’t mind parting with right now, the only one I’m not ashamed of.

I’m not expecting anything, of course. I may be dying, but I’m not deluded enough to think that anything would change now that Snow knew I was gay.

I patiently wait for him to grasp what I’m trying to tell him. His brows furrow in confusion at first, before they shoot up towards his hairline. His face goes bright red, his mouth opening and closing gormlessly. Ah, there it was.

(This would be highly entertaining if it weren’t so damn depressing.)

“I—you—you mean you’re—!” Snow sputters.

“Gay, yes,” I say tetchily, deciding to put him out of his misery. “You can say it, the word isn’t contagious.”

“But I didn’t—so you never—with Agatha—”

I scowl. “Not everyone is as infatuated with Wellbelove as you, Snow.”

He snaps his mouth shut and looks away at that, appearing almost guilty.

I raise an eyebrow. Trouble in paradise, I see. Interesting.

The universe chooses that moment to remind us both that I am, indeed, still dying.

The tendrils in my lungs squeeze so painfully that I audibly gasp. I grit my teeth and sag forward, arms crossed tightly over myself in an effort to alleviate the searing pain in my chest. My mouth feels too full, and it takes me far too long to realize that it’s because my fangs have popped. There are hands gripping my shoulders and someone’s shouting my name, but I can’t focus on that right now. Not when I can’t move, can’t think, can’t _breathe_ —

And then it’s gone. I feel hands pushing me backwards and I don’t fight them, collapsing bonelessly into my pillows while gasping for air like I’d nearly drowned. (Which I suppose I nearly had.) The rustling in my lungs keeps me from getting a full breath, and I feel lightheaded. My body is still trembling slightly.

Will it be like this until the end?

I’m brought out of my reverie by Snow snatching my limp hand off of the bedspread and grasping it between his own. (He’s so _warm_.)

“Baz, _please_ ,” he begs, the absolute desperation in his voice making my breath catch. “Tell me who it is. I’ll bring him here, I’ll _make him_ —”

His voice breaks and tears fill those blue eyes. His lower lip trembles.

I’m weak. I’m so weak for him that even as I lay dying because of him, I still can’t stop myself from trying to get that awful look off of his face. I reach over with my free hand and lay it gently on his cheek. I wipe away a tear with the pad of my thumb as it falls.

I’ll let myself have this, at least.

He sobs, letting out a sound like I’ve just gravely wounded him, then surges forward until his mouth collides with mine.

I’ve spent countless time imagining what kissing Simon Snow would be like. I’d always imagined it would be like a fight, angry and forceful, both of us giving as good as we got. Or sometimes I’d indulge myself by thinking it would be tender, gentle. Full of care.

This kiss was neither of those. It was graceless and frantic, wet with his tears.

Blood is singing in my ears, my head full of static.

Snow—

Simon is—

Before I can react, he pulls away. His eyes flash, bright and fierce. “Fuck that bloke you’re in love with, the bastard doesn’t deserve you.”

My mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. In an astounding bout of cosmic irony, I’m the one that’s speechless for once. Just… _what_?

“Fall in love with me instead. I’m pretty sure I already love you because the thought of you dying is bloody terrifying. I really want to keep kissing you, but I can’t do that if you’re dead so please—”

I can’t help the delirious laugh that escapes me.

He juts his chin out and furrows his brows. “Look, I know it’s probably impossible for you but at least _try._ I’m not letting you give up and I’m not losing you!”

I marvel at this boy in front of me, at this gorgeous catastrophe of a boy. I feel the flowers in my chest wilt and die, and I relish the deep breath that I drag into my lungs.

“Crowley, you’re thick,” I breathe out, before grabbing the back of his neck and dragging him in to claim his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all!
> 
> I currently have too many WIPs so, naturally, I decided to write a whole new story! And another Hanahaki Disease fic, no less! I had a blast writing it though, so I have only a moderate amount of regrets.
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


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